The Only Relief
by Carcaohtar
Summary: What was the final straw that made Johnny nail his bunny to the wall? What pushed him to create Nailbunny?


(A/N: I just read the JTHM series about a week ago. A friend gave it to me, and I've never read any of the other comics (yet), so I'm not sure how in-character all this is, but I tried. Feedback is GREATLY appreciated. It's my first JTHM story, dealing with my favorite topic: how did Nailbunny become Nailbunny? Cheers. Dylan)

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The Only Relief

Johnny woke up to an uncomfortable, familiar heat between his legs. His brow furrowed with distress. Not again. Not this.

He had had such a tiring day, too. He hadn't slept in days. He'd had to kill an entire café full of people after they laughed at him for tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. And he'd forgotten to drag home any of the bodies, so he had to go out again and kill a few more people, to feed the wall. And after all that, all he'd wanted was a cherry Brain Freezy, only to find out the store had replaced cherry with grape, which he hated. He'd come home so upset that he'd attempted suicide again. And as usual, he had failed.

A bad day like that would have usually allowed him a heavy, dreamless sleep for hours, without interruption. But here he was, awake, at—what was it?—2:08 AM, according to the digital clock lying on the faded wood floor next to his mattress.

He sat up, thin shoulders hunched protectively over his scrawny body, head down and eyes closed tightly, struggling to will himself to regain control and go back to sleep. But nothing happened. He sat there, body tense and quivering, watching the minutes tick away on the clock and wishing he had a cherry Brain Freezy. But there was no change in his situation. He was aroused—a disgusting physical weakness, a horrible thing that made him feel, made him lose control. Something that repulsed him. Something that made him want to hang himself all over again. Something from which there was no release, except to touch it… to _fondle _it, that disgusting human weakness of his. The very idea made him sick.

Johnny stood. He would wait it out in front of the television. He'd let the television carry away his brain, and when he woke from the stupor, it would be gone.

But wait! What if _they_ were awake, too? They didn't seem to sleep. At least, they were always awake when he was awake. What if they were down there, waiting?

Nervously, Johnny glanced around him. They could be watching him _right now_. He had to get out!

But he couldn't! Not like this! How could he kill anyone like this? The last thing they would see would be the bulge in his pants. He hadn't asked for it. But he couldn't kill anyone in good conscience with it. They would think he was turned on by it. Ha! Turned on by that! No, he did it because he had to. For the wall. For the world. He couldn't let these horrible creatures roam the earth, the gawkers, the insincere animal _bastards_.

He would have to wait it out. He was so restless. But he had to remain inside. No killing, no torture, not until it was gone.

He inched nervously toward the door, creeping as softly as he could in his heavy, steel-toed boots. Too loud! He pulled them off, creeping over the floor in bare feet. He peeked around the door frame, eyes wide. All quiet. Yes, good. He crept down the hall, checking over his shoulders frequently, self-consciously. But he got to his living room without incident. It was almost too easy.

The living room was bare. A faded couch with the stuffing coming out, a dilapidated television, and the cage that contained Johnny's white rabbit. He was awake. He put his front paws against the wire, greeting Johnny silently. Johnny opened the door of the cage before making his way to the couch, coldness creeping up into his bare feet from the floor. Happily, the rabbit jumped out and began to hop across the floor, his little motor-nose moving constantly. Johnny smiled, watching.

"Well, well, well. Look who's up."

Johnny cringed, smile disappearing.

"Oh-ho. Two things are up tonight."

"Go away!" whimpered Johnny. He didn't need this now.

The doughboys. His own horrible creations, as much a part of him as this hated stiffness that wouldn't go away. Those leering styrofoam faces, drawn with a black marker.

"Weak."

"Disgusting."

There they were. Propped up against the wall. Smirking at him. He had completely missed them. And now they could see…

"What are you going to do about it, Nny? Rub it off?"

"Doesn't look like it's going to go away on its own. You should kill yourself."

"Please, shut up," begged Johnny.

"Are you actually _begging _with us? God, you sorry excuse for a living creature. You're disgusting."

"Go on, Johnny. Kill yourself," wheedled Psychodoughboy.

"Don't listen to him. You know you'll only fail."

"Dead men don't get erections."

"Oh, they do. And there's no release from that," replied Mr Eff, smirking.

"Go ahead, Johnny. Get a knife. It'll work this time. I promise."

"He's lying to you!"

"You sadistic little fuckers," sniffled Johnny, tears beginning to run down his cheeks.

"The sooner you rub it off, the sooner you can go back to bed," continued Mr. Eff, as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"_Touch_ it? You perverted asshole. There's only one thing to do, Johnny. Kill—"

"There's no waiting out this one. You're _losing control_, Nny. You can't even control yourself anymore. You're weak. You're a beast. You know how animals deal with this, Nny? Do you?"

Johnny nodded, eyes closed, sniveling.

"The longer you live, the more of these you'll have to deal with!"

"You can't die. You'll have to do it. Do it, Johnny, do it!"

"Mr. Eff is right. I can't die," cried Johnny.

"Try it, Johnny! Try before you make yourself jack off. You don't want to jack off, but you _do_ want to die. Maybe it'll go away while you're trying."

"The sooner you do this, the sooner it'll go away. He's only trying to prolong your misery."

"Okay!" sobbed Johnny. "Okay, fine! Fine, I'll do it! Just shut up!"

"Do what?" asked both doughboys in unison.

Shaking, eyes closed, Johnny brushed his fingers against his bulge. His whole body convulsed.

"You always side with him! Always! You don't want to die! You don't deserve to die!"

"Disgusting. You dirty, disgusting, sorry excuse for a living thing."

"Shut up," whimpered Johnny, wrapping a hand around his erection through his clothing. Unwilling, he thrust into his hand. He was so hard it hurt. But he couldn't… he couldn't… he had to. Fumbling, he pulled down his zipper, eased the hated thing out. The doughboys both jeered at him. Only his rabbit took no notice of him; the little animal was exploring the edge of the room.

"You like it, don't you? You like feeling a hard cock in your hand, don't you Nny? You faggot."

"I'm not a faggot," whimpered Johnny.

"You are! Faggot! Faggot, faggot, faggot!" hissed Psychodoughboy. "Everyone sees it but you!"

Johnny cried as he moved his hand up and down his erection. The erection itself hurt, but the feel of his palm and fingers over it felt so good, so relieving. If only they would shut up, he could let go, he could let himself lose all control and felt his own disgusting body fluids all over his hand, and he could cry over it and wash himself and then go kill to keep the wall wet, the wall, always the wall. But he couldn't reach a climax with the horrible things talking to him.

"I'm going to be sick."

"This is pathetic."

"Faggot."

"Freak."

Each tug on it only made him stiffer, only heightened his tension. It was like an itch he couldn't stop scratching, one that wouldn't go away and hurt to scratch and that he needed to scratch because it itched so, so badly.

"You can't even do this right!"

"Monster!"

"Failure!"

Johnny arched his back, still crying. He hadn't given in for months. The last time had been the same. He'd clutched his cock for nearly a half-hour, crying and struggling to release all the heat and pressure. And that was without the doughboys. He'd never be able to relieve himself now. He'd be at it for hours. He was weak.

"Weak!" chimed both doughboys.

Johnny cupped his balls with his other hand, stroking them, rolling them around, struggling to reach a climax as quickly as possible. He squeezed gently, thrust harder into his own grip. But it didn't matter. There was no release.

His bunny hopped happily across the floor, oblivious to the yells of the doughboys, yells only Johnny could hear. Eyes closed and head tilted over the back of the couch, he didn't see the bunny approaching.

Sweetly, innocently, the bunny hopped over to greet him. The soft fur brushed Johnny's feet; the wiggling nose touched his skin, and his pet nibbled him affectionately. Johnny cried out. He jerked into his hand and came, releasing the horrible sexual tension that had been pent up for months. He immediately began sobbing. He hated the feel of body fluids on him, especially his own. Both doughboys continued yelling. Shaking, Johnny looked down. All over the couch, his clothes, his hands. But he was no longer hard. It was gone. He wouldn't have to go through this again for a long time.

Anger rose suddenly into Johnny's throat. He hated himself for having to do this. He hated himself for that gratification. He had _enjoyed_ it.

Still crying, his eyes narrowed and slid over the room. There. It was that stupid, stupid rabbit. That stupid animal that had turned him into an animal, made him surrender to physical desire! That evil creature! Disgusting naked inhuman beast!

He pushed his cock back into his pants, wiped his hands on his thighs, and rose. Fucking thing. Fucking little piece of shit. He approached it, taking long, quick strides. The bunny turned, nose wiggling happily. Johnny grabbed it by the scruff of its neck.

"You think you're better than me!" he screeched, nearly hysterical at the rabbit dangling from his hand. "You cocky little bastard! You're laughing at me now!" He shook it. The rabbit squirmed for the first time. It had never been manhandled before.

"I'll kill you!" screamed Johnny. "You fucking son of a bitch!"

"Kill him! Kill him!" chanted the doughboys.

"You're just like everyone else!" screamed Johnny as the rabbit struggled harder to get away. There were nails lying next to the television. He grabbed them.

"Kill him! Kill him!" continued the doughboys, for once agreeing on something.

Johnny was so angry he couldn't see straight. Later, he wouldn't even be sure how he held the struggling rabbit to the wall along with the nail and hammer. He would remember the first blow. The horrible squeal the thing made. Worse than any of his victims had ever made. A high-pitched, pained death-cry when the hammer first hit the nail, driving its point into the tiny, fragile chest. He would remember the feel of the softness, the pulsing life of that rabbit, and the blood, staining the white fur, running all over his hands. He only pounded harder, sobbing and screaming while the rabbit squirmed frantically, screeching with pain. And then it stopped. It went limp, twitching, and then stopped moving altogether. Johnny breathed deeply, clutching the hammer, staring at his bunny, the bunny he'd crucified to the wall. It was still warm. It was still soft. Still innocent. He had taken its life, but not its innocence. No amount of nails could do that. For the first time in his life, Johnny almost, almost, felt bad. But the rabbit had deserved it. He was sorry it had had to come to this, but he had been forced to nail his rabbit to the wall.

He carefully pulled the nail from the wall. The rabbit remained impaled on it, bright eyes already glazed. Johnny petted the ears.

"Nailbunny," he whispered tearfully.

For once, the doughboys were silent.

-Fin-


End file.
